


Both or None

by Atisenia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Confessions, Humor, Implied/Referenced Drowning, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Tumblr: letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2364029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/pseuds/Atisenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John get kidnapped. Again. But this time, apart from their unknown kidnapper, they need to confront their fears and their feelings for each other as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Both or None

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock's [Trope Bingo Challenge](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/92844722125/challenge-15-trope-bingo-how-does-one-play). This is the Handcuffed/Tied Together trope and the Confession trope from Card 4.  
> I don't even know anymore. I hope it's fun to read.  
> Also, I'm not a native English speaker and this is not betaed, so if you see any unforgivable errors, just let me know.;)
> 
>  **Warnings** : I feel like I should say there are mentions of torture and drowning in the fic. Nothing graphic or even very specific, just... references, but I thought you should know. I don't really think like the fic warrants the mature rating for it but if you disagree, please let me know and I will change it.

There was something not quite right with Sherlock’s current position. The last time he checked, he was sitting in his armchair at Baker Street, drinking tea and sending John quick glances from time to time to make sure he didn’t imagine him sitting in front of him. But his chair was soft and warm, and didn’t make him uncomfortable like that. It also didn’t normally impair movement in his hands and didn’t cause his brain to have trouble processing.

He opened his eyes, battling against the weight of his eyelids, and looked around. Definitely not Baker Street.

He was in a large, square room with no windows, doors or furniture. The only source of light was a lone light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He shifted on the floor and quickly determined that it was made of heavy concrete, and so were the walls and probably the ceiling. Small iron grates littered the floor, which was most probably not a good sign.

His hands were tied behind his back, attached by another set of rope to someone else’s hands. Sherlock didn’t need to look back to know they were John’s. He would recognize them everywhere from the set of calluses and that tiny scar just below his knuckles. He looked over his shoulder anyway to make sure John was all right.

“John,” he said but there was no answer. Sherlock should help John build a tolerance to drugs. Maybe stage a kidnapping or two himself, though that could be a tricky thing to get John to forgive him for. “John!” he said louder and elbowed John the best he could in this inconvenient position.

John grunted and stirred.

“Sh’lock?” he said and cleared his throat. Sherlock gave him time to take in their surroundings and smirked when John let out a frustrated sigh. “Have we been kidnapped again?”

“I should think so,” Sherlock said. “Otherwise, our current predicament will be extremely difficult to explain to the press.”

“Hilarious,” John replied, clearly not amused. “So who hates us _this_ time?”

“Oh, there’s always someone, isn’t there?”

John tested the ropes binding them but didn’t have more luck with that than Sherlock.

“So you don’t know,” John said, giving up on the task.

“I... don’t have sufficient data to form a theory,” Sherlock conceded.

John grumbled.

“I bet it’s one of those clients you charmed away with your insults,” he muttered. “They’ll torture you with kind words and good manners.”

Sherlock scoffed at him, annoyed.

“Or maybe it’s not my charm that is the problem here but Mary’s gun,” he said.

John stiffened against him and curled his hands into fists. Sherlock felt the urge to bite off his own tongue. He shouldn’t have said that. Mary’s death was a recent wound and Sherlock could see how it still affected John. It wouldn’t do to drive his doctor away again because of a couple of careless words.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled and squeezed John’s fists briefly.

John sighed.

“No, that’s... it’s fine,” he said and flexed his fingers. “And it might be true so it wouldn’t be fair to automatically put the blame on you.”

“Well...” Sherlock said. “To be fair, it _is_ statistically more likely that this is somehow my fault, directly or not.”

“Glad you agree.” Sherlock was relieved to hear a smile in John’s voice. He didn’t messed this up completely then. “How do we get out of this?”

“We could try to get rid of the rope that binds us together,” Sherlock proposed. “Even with our hands tied behind our backs we will be able to do much more than now. Stand, for instance.”

“We can try standing now if we coordinate,” John said.

“Yes, but my hands will be considerably higher than yours, which will be extremely uncomfortable for both of us."

"You're such a git," John told him. "I don't suppose you have anything we could use to cut the rope?"

"I would if I had my coat on. Alas..."

"What do you mean? What are you wearing?" John asked and Sherlock felt him squirming. And then he felt him shaking with laughter.

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused by the reaction.

"You're in your dressing gown," John said, still laughing.

"Yes," Sherlock drawled. "We were drinking tea when we got kidnapped. That's probably how they drugged us."

"Still, a dressing gown," John said and shook his head. "You've got to admit it's rather funny."

"Better than a sheet, I suppose," Sherlock said lightly and looked over his shoulder at John. Their eyes met and they burst out laughing.

"So," John started, still amused. "What do we do now?"

Sherlock looked around for something that could help them cut through the rope, but the room was empty and _clean_. Apparently, someone put a lot of effort into assuring they wouldn't free themselves. It was rather refreshing to be dealing with intelligent people for once.

"We could use the grates," Sherlock finally said. "It might take a while but they look sharp enough."

"Okay then," John said. "Let's find ourselves one of those, yeah?"

They moved at the same time, in different directions. Sherlock hissed at the additional bite of the rope around his wrists and his dressing gown slid down his arms. John fixed him with a look.

"The same one, preferably," he said.

"It's not my fault that your logistic thinking is flawed," Sherlock snapped. "It should be obvious that the one on your right is the best option because it's right in the centre."

"Yes. And the one on my left is more than three feet closer."

"I thought you said we could even stand successfully if we coordinated?"

John raised an eyebrow at him and sighed and then shrugged.

"Whatever," he muttered. "Just get on with it."

They did manage to stand up and it wasn't as unbearable as Sherlock feared it would be. He'd nearly forgotten how well they worked together in these situations, how they always moved like a well-oiled machine. Soon, they were standing over the grate in the centre of the room and carefully lowering themselves back down to the floor.

"What are these grates for?" John asked when they started working on the ropes. They missed their target and Sherlock winced at a sudden pain but didn't stop. It was working. It was going to take a painfully long time to free them both completely of their bonds but it could be done. The rope that bound them together was already getting loose.

"I have a few theories," Sherlock said, trying to adjust his gown to keep it out of the way. "Let's just hope that they provide proper ventilation."

"Do you think they will send someone here soon?" John asked and missed the rope again, which made Sherlock hiss, louder this time. "Sherlock?"

John stopped working on the rope and turned to look at him. Sherlock tried to compose some sort of reply but the grate sliced right under the third fingernail of his left hand, the one they removed in Istanbul, and Sherlock couldn't quite shake away the memory of that pain.

There was a surprised gasp behind him that centred him back in the present moment.

"What's that on your back?" John asked, his voice strained.

Sherlock frowned at him.

"Well, I can't really see, can I?" he said. "Is it a spider?"

John sent him a glare, then he cleared his throat.

"You have scars, Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his eyes and looked awaty with his jaw set. John wasn't supposed to know about this. The stupid t-shirt normally covered his back sufficiently but it must have rolled up during their move. And with his dressing gown low on his forearms, John was bound to see. This was getting better and better.

"Why do you have so many scars on your back?" John asked when Sherlock kept silent for too long. There was a steely determination in John's voice that told Sherlock he wouldn't be able to ignore the question for long.

"Obviously I was injured," Sherlock bit out and hoped it would be enough. It wasn't.

"How?" John asked at once. "You didn't have those scars before... before you jumped. Why are they there now?"

Sherlock cocked his head and contemplated the best course of action. He could lie, offer a simple excuse that would placate John and never start him on the topic again. But there were enough lies in John’s life.

"When I was trying to dismantle Moriarty's web, I was captured," Sherlock said, keeping his voice carefully level. "Interrogated."

"You mean tortured," John said quietly. "Where?"

"I don't think this is the right moment..." Sherlock started and shook their hands.

"Where, Sherlock?" John insisted and there was a dangerous note in his voice now.

Sherlock bit his lower lip and braced himself.

"Once in Russia, once in Peru and twice in Serbia," he said, still trying to keep his voice steady. They should have had this conversation a long time ago. Or possibly never.

"Jesus," John sighed and his left hand started shaking. Sherlock had the urge to squeeze it but refrained himself. "I didn't know. You were— and I thought—"

"You thought I had been travelling for two years and solving puzzles for fun," Sherlock said and John let out a pained groan. "It's all right, I let you."

"Why? Why would you let me think that?" John breathed heavily and Sherlock didn't know if John was angry with him or possibly just upset.

"John?" he started uncertainly and glanced over his shoulder. John's eyes were scanning Sherlock's lower back.

"I didn't even ask," he rasped and cleared his throat. "God, I should have asked." He lifted his head and looked Sherlock in the eye. "They were sending you back. After you killed Magnussen. They were sending you back to Serbia."

"Yes."

"You said six months," John continued.

"Yes."

"Oh God," John said and closed his eyes. "They would have let you die in there."

Sherlock hesitated before saying, again, "yes."

John gritted his teeth and tilted his head. Sherlock could see the tense muscles in his neck working.

"And you—" He took a breath and looked at Sherlock again, only briefly. "You said nothing. You let me believe..." He stopped himself when his voice broke on the last word.

Sherlock sighed.

"It seemed... kinder," he said quietly. "You had already witnessed me dying once and I thought..."

"You thought that it would be better if I thought you were out there being brilliant but unable to come home rather than being tortured to death." John took a couple of deep breaths. "Jesus, Sherlock."

"You had a family to worry about, John," Sherlock told him. "I didn't want you to worry about me, too."

John huffed.

"You're an idiot," John said with too much emotion in his voice. "And we will talk about this whole keeping me in the dark thing later. Now help me free our hands so I can punch you."

Sherlock smirked, glad at the change of subject. They worked in silence for some time, focused on the ropes binding them. They finally managed to cut through them and they both started massaging their wrists as soon as the ropes dropped.

"Do you think they're planning on gassing us?" John asked, frowning at the grate.

Sherlock was about to reply when a strange noise came from underneath them and water started streaming out of every single grate in the floor.

"Well, never mind then," John said and stood up. Sherlock followed his example trying to breathe steadily. Why did it have to be water? "It's all very action movie-like, isn't it?” John snorted. “I'm half expecting the walls to start moving."

Sherlock was forming a biting retort when the walls did in fact start moving, closing up on them.

"Well then," John said, bemused. "This is weird."

"I really think you should stop talking now, John," Sherlock told him, massaging his chest.

"Probably, yes. Before the floor starts moving, too."

He made a step towards one of the walls and nearly fell down the hole that appeared in the place he just stepped on. Sherlock caught him in the last moment and pulled him closely against his own body. He should have reacted sooner, but the room seemed to be floating around him and it was difficult to concentrate.

"Ta," John said and smiled at Sherlock who glared at him.

"Really, John, do stop talking," he told him.

"Yeah, all right," John said and nodded. Then he carefully stepped out of Sherlock's arms and regarded him critically. "You're shaking," he said.

Sherlock snorted.

"No, I'm not," he said trying not to move so that the world could stop spinning.

"You are. And you're hyperventilating." John frowned at him. "Sherlock, do you feel dizzy?"

"I never—"

John silenced him by unexpectedly grabbing his wrist and checking his pulse.

"Why are you having a panic attack?" John asked, finally letting go of his wrist.

"I am not," Sherlock protested but it sounded weak even to his own ears. "Am I?"

"Yes," John said and smiled at him gently. "Let's get you seated for a while before you collapse."

"No!" Sherlock shook his head. "Not... not in the water."

John looked at him for a very long time and then let out a soft "oh".

"Did someone try to drown you?" he asked cautiously. "Breathe with me."

Sherlock mimicked John's deep breaths and nodded.

"In... in Russia," he said. "They kept me in this... glass room full of water. It was difficult to breathe."

"Jesus," John said and closed his eyes as if in pain. "Okay. We're getting out of here, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock said and took another deep breath. "There's a... door in the ceiling. A bit to the right. I noticed it when... when we were trying to cut the rope."

John scanned the ceiling and nodded.

"Okay, I see it," he said. "What do we do?"

"I'm... I will lift you and you'll try to open it."

"The water..." John protested.

"Is still low. I'll be fine."

John didn't look convinced but didn't protest either. They treaded carefully towards the door, watching out for more traps in the floor. Finally, they stood under the door and looked at each other.

"You sure?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said impatiently and motioned for John to move.

John sighed but climbed at Sherlock's shoulders and pushed the door. It opened easily.

"Huh," John muttered. "Look at that."

He climbed through the hole in the ceiling, obviously intending to help Sherlock climb after him. And it was about time. The walls were just a few feet away now and the water level rose to Sherlock's waist.

John's climbing threw off his balance though and made him step back, right into another trap in the floor. His leg got stuck in it and he couldn't move it.

"Sherlock?" John called, looking at him from above. "Why are you standing there? Come here."

"I can't," Sherlock said trying very hard not to collapse.

John's eyes softened and he smiled at him gently.

"It's okay, Sherlock. You can do it. And then it will be over."

"I'm not panicking!" Sherlock snapped. "Well, I _am_ actually, probably, but it's not why I can't move." He took a deep breath. "You should go."

"What? No, Sherlock, I'm not leaving you."

"You won't be. I'll be right behind you."

John frowned at him.

"You're lying," he said. "What's wrong? Why can't you move?"

Sherlock sighed. Apparently John wasn't going to leave without an explanation.

"My foot is trapped," he said. "So, as I said, I really _can't_ come any closer."

John gritted his teeth and looked around the room. The walls were getting closer and the water was reaching Sherlock's chest by now, and it was improbable that Sherlock would free himself in time. Surely it was evident, even to an average mind.

And then John nodded to himself and jumped right back into the room.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked in an annoyed voice that was meant to cover his panic. “Go back, you need to get out of here.”

“Nope,” John said. “I’m not leaving you here.”

Without another word, he dived and tugged at Sherlock’s leg. It wasn’t going to work. The trap was too clever and without actually cutting off the foot, Sherlock wouldn’t be able to get it out. Well, he would, given enough time, which they didn’t have.

John surfaced and took a couple of deep breaths. The water was higher now, almost reaching John’s chin.

“Go now,” Sherlock told him. “You still have time...”

“Do you ever listen to me?” John said. “I am not leaving you here.”

He vanished underwater again and Sherlock hissed in pain when two strong hands tried to forcibly free his foot. It barely moved at all, only scraping his skin against the concrete.

When John surfaced again, he had to hold his head high to avoid swallowing water. Sherlock gripped his shoulders.

“Go,” he said frantically, looking John in the eye. “Please. I won’t be able to free myself but—”

“Then I’ll stay,” John told him firmly. “If you’re not getting out of here, then I am not going anywhere either.”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“Are you mad?” he asked, digging his fingers into John’s arms with enough force to leave bruises. He needed John to leave. He absolutely had to convince the stubborn man to give himself a chance.

“Probably,” John conceded and grinned at him. Then he grew serious again. “I am not leaving you here to die, Sherlock.”

“But you will die, too!”

John looked at him for a very long time, wasting precious seconds. The walls would close on them soon and the water was nearly reaching John’s mouth already.

“If I leave now,” John started and therewas unexpected emotion in his voice. “I will leave behind everything worth living for that I have left. So maybe you can understand why I’m not going to do that.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed back the bile rising in his throat.

“John,” he whispered and reached for John.

“It’s both of us or none of us, Sherlock,” John said and pulled Sherlock into a hug.

Well then, if that was the case, Sherlock had something to say and it might be his last chance to do that.

“I love you,” Sherlock said and felt John shiver against him. “That’s what I was going to say before the plane took off but how could—”

That’s when John kissed him. It was tricky, with both of them trying to hold their heads above water but it was still the best thing that Sherlock could ever imagine getting as his dying wish. His heart had already been frantic but now it seemed about ready to break free from his chest.

They ended the kiss and grinned at each other, despite the fact that they were most certainly about to die.

And then Sherlock’s foot was released, the walls started moving in opposite directions and the water started draining quickly from the room, as if someone pulled out the plug — all at the same time.

“What’s happening?” John asked, confused.

“Hey, guys,” a new voice called from above and they both turned to see Lestrade grinning at them. “Good job, you can come out now.”

“What?” John looked at Lestrade, then at Sherlock, who could only frown.

“You’re awfully pleased with yourself,” Sherlock snapped at him. John would probably lecture him later about antagonizing people responsible for saving their lives but Sherlock didn’t care at the moment. “Why?”

“Ever thought about starring in a reality show?” Lestrade asked, still with that annoying grin. “Big Brother, for example? I gotta admit, you know how to catch the viewer’s attention.”

“Ah,” Sherlock murmured, feeling like an idiot.

“What? What’s going on?” John asked and Sherlock really couldn’t blame him for not catching up this time.

“It was Mycroft,” Sherlock said and glared at Lestrade, who only grinned wider. “With a little help of his friends, I’m sure.”

“You mean...” John stared at him with wide eyes and then turned to glare at Lestrade. “ _You_ locked us here and nearly drowned us?”

“Well, don’t be so dramatic, mate,” Lestrade said. “It was all heavily supervised, totally controlled. It’s not like anyone would actually _die_ in here.”

“Unbelievable,” John muttered and clenched his right hand into a fist. This time Sherlock didn’t stop himself from touching it. He felt better when John relaxed slightly against him. “Why don’t you come down here and explain why the bloody hell would you even do that?”

Lestrade shook his head.

“Sorry, John,” he said. “I don’t really fancy looking like Chief Superintendant after a meeting with your fist.” John and Sherlock both scowled at him. “We just decided to give you a little nudge in the right direction. You know, so you could stop being stubborn bastards and talk, which you’re both rubbish at.”

“I’m going to _kill_ them,” John murmured. Sherlock smirked.

“Better them than me,” Sherlock said and John snorted.

“The kissing was a nice bonus though,” Lestrade continued, oblivious as ever. “And you had Molls in tears from the moment John jumped back into the room.”

“How many people were actually involved in this?” John demanded.

“Come up and you’ll find out,” Lestrade said. “Maybe you’ll even get a free CD with your performance. I’m definitely keeping one.” He looked at them critically. “Or maybe you’d prefer to get out of these wet clothes first, then by all means.”

With that, he threw them a ladder and walked away, whistling.

John looked at Sherlock.

“Is it still murder now or simply justice?” he asked.

Sherlock grinned at him.

“I’ll help you hide the bodies.”

“Deal,” John said but instead of leaving the bloody room, he turned fully into Sherlock and kissed him.


End file.
